


Participation

by IfMulderCouldSeeMeNow



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/M, Mentions of Will Graham - Freeform, Not Bedannibal, Set after the stinger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-29
Updated: 2018-03-29
Packaged: 2019-04-14 14:51:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14138334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IfMulderCouldSeeMeNow/pseuds/IfMulderCouldSeeMeNow
Summary: Bedelia's adventures in the French Riviera are unexpectedly cut short by our favorite cannibalistic psychiatrist.





	Participation

The French Riviera had been good to Bedelia, giving her skin a sun-kissed shine reminiscent of summers of her youth. Her apartment near the water was an excellent find, even more so when the owner insisted she pay in cash. She wakes each morning refreshed, and wobbles only slightly in grabbing her crutches, sliding her slender arms into the cuffs. Almost an entire year of practice has done her well- Bedelia’s biceps are lean, and yet the muscles flex as she moves across her bedroom, her knee-length cerulean silk camisole sliding against her thighs, correction _thigh_ , with each movement. Reaching the large vanity, where her left leg rests, Bedelia begins the morning routine of putting herself back together again. She no longer bothers with curlers, wands, or irons as her hair now takes on its natural smooth wave. She looks decades younger.

The warm climate had been the perfect place to hide. Her long and light elegant beach dresses kept questions at bay. She still needed a cane to keep her balance at times, especially on difficult terrain, but the smooth walking stick she acquired gave her the look of an average beach goer of a certain age, and not the escaped victim of a murder husbands’ luau. At least that’s what Tattler.com reported. Sometimes when she closed her eyes, she could still see the picture of the feast, published on front-page news for the entire world to see. Bedelia hadn’t remained in the United States long enough to see the end of the investigation into the impromptu feast of her flesh, and she had no help to offer. She could only remember the thick fog of her brain, the sudden terror, and the sickly-sweet smell of what she soon realized was her own flesh. Sometimes, there’s a particular feeling on the tip of her tongue- a salivation-inducing yearning that brings bile up her throat once her brain catches up to what particular taste her body is yearning for.

Just as she’s making the final touches to her makeup, she stops, the small blending brush dropping from her fingers. Her hands begin to shake when she takes in a familiar smell. She immediately knows. _He’s found her._ A very tiny voice in her mind suggests that perhaps it is a phantom smell, produced by her subconscious to provoke her into another panic attack, But no. She has survived too many near-deaths to not trust her instincts, Gooseflesh puckers her skin, and her pupils dilate. Her mind works quickly, and she immediately reaches for the bottom vanity drawer. Just as she grasps the smooth metal of the gun in her fingertips, his voice startles her.

“You’re beginning to show a pattern, Bedelia.” His voice is light, and yet, there’s a smugness behind it, a mocking in his parroted speech. _Two times is hardly a pattern,_ she thinks to herself. There is a long, silent pause before she responds, placing the gun on the vanity with a soft clink.

“You are presumptuous to think I was intending to point it at you,” she deadpans, _it's only a half-truth,_ she silently muses. There is a reason she doesn't keep it next to her bedside. His eyebrows rise uncharacteristically.  She’s surprised him. Just when he thought he would surprise her. Bedelia pushes herself up from the vanity slowly, and reaches for the crystal bottle filled with cognac, her eyes meeting his in the mirror. She pours a small amount of the amber liquid, enough for one mouthful, into a glass, returns the gun to her right hand and turns to face him. The small gun is steady at her side, her finger still on the trigger, as she slightly swirls the glass, her eyes never leaving his. He clears his throat.

“You ran” _from me_ is the unspoken subtext of his accusation. There is pain in his eyes, but his confusion returns when she barks out a laugh. It is mirthless, and yet, she throws her head back anyway, blonde strands tumbling over her shoulders and down her back- her hair has grown much longer in his absence. His eyes widen and his brow furrows.  

“I haven’t _ran_ anywhere in quite some time, Hannibal,” she retorts, her voice like thick syrup, coating his body, holding him in place. Guilt isn’t an emotion he feels often, or so acutely, but it sticks to his flesh and bubbles. “But that was your _intention,”_ she continues, bringing the glass to her mouth and tipping it back. A small ghost of a smirk reaches her lips as it warms her body.  She begins to cross the distance of the room toward him, a slight limp in her gait. _See me_. Each step punctuates. _See what your folly has cost me._ She stops long before she is in the distance of his arms, and huffs out a breath. It is still a bit strenuous to walk without the aid of a crutch or cane.

“Bedelia, I have-” He starts before she cuts him off, unconcerned with her presumed rudeness. Being polite didn’t save her leg. Didn’t salvage her career as a psychiatrist. _Fool me twice._

“The last time I saw Will Graham, he was displeased that you didn’t mark me,” her voice has a lilt similar to when she suggested something in his sessions before attempting to effortlessly extract something from his mind. “Are you happy, now?”

“Will Graham was not himself, Bedelia.”

She smiles then, but it’s sad. Their circular conversations have gone stale. “He has always been himself when you were concerned, Hannibal,” she says with a sigh. He spots a single tear glide down her face and notices that her hands begin to shake as if she’s afraid.

“I didn’t come here to kill you, Delia,” he voices softly.

“I know,” she pauses, “not today.” The words are solemn and not the response he expected “But I will _not_ be your next Abel Gideon.” There is a tremor in her voice then, and Hannibal’s pupils widen when he hears the soft click of the safety being released from the gun. He hears the loud bang and first registers shock, then pain, _everywhere._

“I-I,” he stammers. The pain is like no other and he presses his hands against the blood seeping from his stomach.

“You came here seeking forgiveness,” she steps closer. “ _that_ is _your_ pattern, Hannibal,” she punctuates, her voice cool. “But I am not Will Graham.” Tears slide down his face as his insides churn. He’s made a grave miscalculation in coming to find her, never expecting this outcome. He falls to his back with a pained grunt, and she hovers over him then, her blonde hair glistening in the morning light streaming through the curtains. It is all at once the most beautiful and terrifying image he has ever seen. His vision begins to fade as she delivers her final words to him, “I will _never_ forgive you.”

As his blood begins to cool and congeal, the ghost of her left leg begins to throb, a debt repaid. Bedelia smiles then, and tears begin to build in her eyes, clouding her vision. “That’s participation,” she whispers to the room.

**Author's Note:**

> If you have any ideas or stories you'd like to see, please inbox me on here, or on my tumblr: @ShadeQueenScully.


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